


Venison, served rare.

by an_actual_trash_panda



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Cannibalism, Murder, Slow Burn, but maybe some will pop up idk, like aggressively slow-burn omg, pre-show stuff so im sorry there aren't any other H.H characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-01-23 06:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18543757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_actual_trash_panda/pseuds/an_actual_trash_panda
Summary: You, a quiet soul that works as a chef, are introduced to a strange yet overtly charming radio personality, and hell ensues._ _ _ _ _ _This started as just writing practice because I haven't really written anything in a while, but my friend encouraged me to post it.  Had to make an account to post, so I'm nervous but I hope y'all enjoy it.  Any suggestions for Archive Warnings, tags, a better title and the like are appreciated; tried to keep the protagonist as gender-neutral as possible, but if I've missed something, please let me know.





	1. Chapter 1

               On any normal occasion, you’d never be out this late; _normally_ , you’d be curled safe in your home, listening to the radio or making dinner.  Or asleep.  It’s not that you have a problem with New Orleans nightlife.  You love the vibrant music, the boisterous pulse of colours and culture that clusters together and spills out onto the streets.  It’s just working the early shift at the restaurant tends to leave you much too exhausted to enjoy the bohemian lifestyle that emerges in the darker hours.  Though that doesn’t really bother you- with time, you’ve grown to prefer mornings.  You’ve come to relish the peace and quiet, the isolation that comes with the sleepy, chipper early hours.

             But _tonight_ , tonight is Mardi Gras.  All hands on-deck.  Despite the downpour of rain, the streets are full of dazzling lights and dazzled party-goers, masked debutantes and the effervescent musicians that cradle their instruments like children as they swim through crowds.  Lushes crawl out from their favourite speakeasies and easily mix into the throng of already heavily inebriated denizens to sing off-key and eat too much food. (You’d think that maybe they’d think twice about getting so drunk in public, with the ongoing Prohibition, until you watch an officer try and fail to climb into a chair, and you remember that this is Mardi Gras in New Orleans.)

              Late into the night, you’ve finally reached the end of your shift.  Your fellow cooks and waiters cheered, as they always did, and urged you to join in the fun.  After all, it’s not like they’d be open tomorrow (or, the sous chef points out, _today_ )—have a drink, they said.  _Enjoy_ _life_ , _for once_ , they begged.  
               So, here you are, drink in hand but hardly touched.  You watch, the corners of your lips curving upwards as the flock of party-goers dance over each other and guffaw at inside jokes.  It’s a few more minutes of idle party-watching, nodding in greeting at the occasional acquaintance until something—or some _one_ —catches your attention.

              He’s an older gentleman (well, older than _you_ , at least), wearing a sleek pinstripe suit with pristine flair.  You inspect his polished, well-kept nature, how he keeps that beaming smile on like a mask.  He must do well for himself, obviously, but by doing what?  Maybe some sort of actor, by the way passersby shoot him simpering looks.  You haven’t been to the theatre in some time, so you wouldn’t know.  He _does_ have that sort of look about him, you muse—handsome, certainly, and just by the way he’s holding himself you can tell he has a certain classic charm.  Much like yourself, he’s seemingly nowhere near drunk and surveying the raucous herd that swirl around him.  But there’s something… different about the way his eyes trail each guest.  You could be imagining it, but it’s almost predatory. 

You look away for two seconds, but when you glance back at the stranger, your eyes meet.

 

               The room seems to freeze, the music dims, and you feel your anxiety gurgle to life.  You’ve been caught ogling a complete stranger (who, at least, isn’t the least bit perturbed) and though you’re overwhelmed by the urge to avert your gaze, his eyes root you to the spot.  His grin widens, just a touch.  You force yourself to grin back, the embarrassment fueling the subtle heat that creeps into your cheeks.  You’re almost thankful to be jostled from the stare-down, until you realize why.

“What’re you doin’ here all by your lonesome?” a burly patron leers at you and leans against the wall with his elbow, his other hand busy with a half-empty glass, “Y’look like you could do with some company.”

You wrinkle your nose as the overtly strong scent of moonshine washes over you, and you attempt to evade capture “Um, no thank you.”

“Come on, it’s _Mardi Gras_ ,” he slurs out a whine and points lip of his glass towards you, its contents sloshing dangerously in your direction, “don’t be such a fucking wet blanket.”

“I’m already with someone,” the lie falls out of your mouth easily as you scuttle passed, but the drunkard grabs you by the wrist.

“Really? I don’t see anyone with you.”

“I don’t—"

“That’s because I’m standing right behind you, good sir.” 

The both of you turn to face your abrupt savior, only to be face-to-face with the older gentleman from earlier.  You blanch ever so slightly but take the opportunity to wrench your arm free.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, dear?” You blink, caught off-guard, but before you can respond he stalks just behind you and continues, “We’re all set here, pal.  We certainly won’t keep you from the party any longer.”  The older gentleman flashes all of his teeth in a friendly smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and with the utmost grace ushers the other man to hurry along.  The goon stares dumbly between you and this stranger for a few moments.  Maybe he’s trying to discern whether you’re worth the effort, or if he’d rather get more splifficated than start a fight.

“You heard him!  Get out of here, you goddamned rube” you shoo him away with a flippant hand and inch towards your new acquaintance.  An expression flashes over the goon’s face—something overwhelmingly rancorous and embarrassed, and for a tense second you vehemently regret your choice to pipe up.

               But he stumbles away and you let go of the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.  The stranger adjusts his tie and straightens his suit, turning to you.  Something about him, his voice maybe, is awfully familiar though you can’t quite place it.

“Thanks,” your tone is unsure, something which the stranger obviously picks up on.

“No need for thanks, my dear,” he gives you a short bow with a level of enthusiasm that you find rather disarming, “after all, we can’t have some no-good bimbo ruining Mardi Gras, can we?”

               The only move he makes towards you is to offer his hand in one grandiose motion.  You take it, and offer a firm handshake and a tiny smile.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, mister—? “

“Alastor, my dear, just Alastor,” He eagerly grasps at your hand with a face-splitting grin, “and the pleasure is all mine.”

**

                Soon you’re both sat at a table, talking over your respective drinks.  You learn he’s some sort of radio personality, which jolts your memory—of _course_ you’ve heard him before, he’s on the radio every day.  He nods knowingly as you announce your discovery and subtly preens as you gush.  When he learns of your culinary profession, his eyes sparkle with fascination and the two of you discuss the finer points of New Orleans cuisine.  You lose track of time, leaning forward, gesticulating with gusto as you swap recipes, kitchen tips, life stories.  Maybe you indulge too much information, but he’s so _easy_ to talk to.  Charming, at times almost a hint rakish in his demeanor, filling gaps in conversation with idle banter, the occasional joke that makes you snort unbecomingly in your drink.  It assuages your usual nerves.

  You finally sip the last dregs of your glass and it dawns on you that only you, Alastor, and a few other wayward souls remain.  The new cook (Matthieu, you think his name is) has shuffled back into the kitchen, shooting a glance in your direction.

“I’d, uh, better call it a night,” you rise from your chair, to which Alastor quickly follows suit.

“Oh my, where does the time go?  I didn’t even realize,” he chortles.  You don’t know where he gets all the energy from—after such a long night you feel like you could collapse, but he’s still such a live wire.  You’d wager he’s become even more excitable as the night crawls on.  “But, will you be alright?  No offense my dear, but it can be dangerous, walking alone so late at night.”

He’s right, but does he have to smile like that?  If you didn’t know any better, he’d give you the heebie-jeebies.  Instead, you just reply with a placating look and an easy-going wave as you walk.

“Don’t worry about me; I know these streets better than anyone.  And anyway, I’d bet my bottom dollar everyone’s too pickled to try anything.”

            With practiced steps you stroll forwards, gliding through the room and easily avoiding the soon-to-be sluggish victims of Mardi Gras hangovers as you make your way towards the scullery.  When you turn, you can still make out Alastor in your peripherals. 

He’s still watching you.  His smile is ever-present, but the friendliness from before has drained from his face.  Maybe he’s just tired, and trying to keep up a polite front, or maybe _you’re_ just tired and seeing things.

Still.  It’s jarring; you shudder a little as you exit from view.

“ _Est-ce que ça va_?” a Cajun accent with a raspy lisp catches you off-guard.

You jump, and your head whips to the right to confront your fellow cook. A stocky man that’s just barely a few inches taller than you, Matthieu quirks an eyebrow and cocks his head slightly, waiting for your response.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.  Uh,” you scoot further into the kitchen and check the gas ovens, counters, some abandoned pots and pans as you pass, “great.  Listen, if you want to just show some people out, I can lock up tonight.”

              The look he gives you a look you can’t quite discern— surprise, concern maybe—but he doesn’t argue (since, of course, you’ve worked here far longer.  That, and Matthieu is impossibly more intimidating than you are, which is a more helpful trait in later hours).  He simply nods, and exits the kitchen once more with a polite farewell.

              The kitchen is finally empty, and you are blissfully left to your own devices.  You take the next hour or so to clean the place with proper conviction, placing your tools in their rightful place with a certain reverence.  The rest of the staff has done an… adequate job, but this _is_ your second home.  It deserves a little more respect, at least.  You also take time to clean, sharpen and pack your knives delicately back in their satchel— the tools of your trade.  Extensions of your arms rather than mere utensils.  Over years, you’ve perfected their care and while it is a small, mismatched collection, it’s easily one of (if not _the_ ) nicest things you own. 

A heavy sigh leaves you, and you wipe the sleep from your eyes.  Maybe you should just sleep here tonight.  It’d be easier than trudging through the streets.

…But you have meat in your Icebox that you’re positive will sour if you don’t cook it soon.

You chew at your lip.

It’s not like anything’s ever happened to _you_.  You’ve taken to these streets hundreds, maybe a thousand times.

 

You’ll be fine.

 

                 You gently cradle your satchel under one arm and sneak a peek into the dining room. Nary a soul left in the place; Alastor must’ve left right after you’d disappeared to the scullery (that or Matthieu escorted him out, though he doesn’t strike you as the type to _let_ himself be escorted).  You still aren’t sure what to think of him.  Obviously, the man’s a sweet talker.  He oozes charisma, knows which buttons to push—he certainly had _you_ talking for most of the night.  But when he thinks people aren’t looking… the only image that you can conjure up is a smug crocodile. It could be just a trick your mind is playing on you but all the same, it fills you with unease, distinctly followed by a morbid sense of curiosity.

The final light is shuttered off, the final door locking with a reliable _click_ , and you wonder if you’ll see Alastor again any time soon.

                  Everything looks different at night, you reflect obtusely, and you squint at the darkness before you.  In the mornings, things are… _friendlier,_ is a good word for it.  Right now, the alleyway you usually take home is slickened with rain, the only source of light dimly exudes from a flickering street light further ahead. You feel a tight knot coiling in your gut as your shoes slap against the wet ground.  But, you reason, it’s not too far from your home.  You could walk from here to home in your sleep, this is just you, being paranoid.

               But a few more steps, and an unmistakable feeling begins to curdle in the back of your mind: you aren’t alone here.  Mere nerves could be the culprit, but it forces breath to hide in your lungs, and your eyes to wildly dart back and forth.  As you draw closer to the street light, you quiet your footsteps and clutch your bag a little tighter until, yes, you can make out thick, slumping footsteps just to your left.

“Well, well.  Fancy seeing you here.”

Your heart is trying to escape out of your chest as you turn to face the ogling goon from earlier.  His face is splotched red, obviously far more soused as he skulks closer to you.

“Nice to see your chaperone’s left, too,” he drawls, and you take a few steps back, “now we can have some _real_ fun.”

“Oh, fuck off you creep,” your mind is completely devoid of witty retorts, but at least you _sound_ formidable.  Your lungs are burning, stomach churned with fear and your shaking hands move towards your bag of their own volition, but you aren’t coming across as a complete milquetoast.  Great.  
Maybe they can put that in your obituary.

He just laughs, hiccupping up spittle as he lurches closer towards you.

“I said **_back off_**.”  _Why aren’t you running?_ Half of your brain screams, and futilely begs your quaking legs to work again and sprint to freedom.  The other half of your brain is sobbing emphatically, _god you’re going to get murdered.  You’re going to die because you wanted to cook some fucking meat that’s sitting in a broken icebox you’re too cheap to fix_.  One of your hands has wandered into your bag and clutches something cold, but oddly comforting.

Several things happen in quick succession:

The man lunges forward, grappling you by the shoulders and flings you off your feet.  The world spins wildly around as you slam into a wall, air abandoning your body with a hollow wheeze.  There’s barely room to struggle as he closes the gap, barely space to gulp what you assume are your last gasps.  You squeeze your eyes shut, and shove your hand towards his face.  A wet, gurgling noise hangs in the alleyway.

 

But the noise is not coming from _you_.

 

A half-minute passes, and nothing else has happened.  You feel something warm and thick lightly splatter at your face.  You finally look up to meet the goon’s bug-eyed gaze.

You didn’t realize you were holding a knife.

You’re _still_ holding the knife, even as it’s lodged awkwardly in his throat.  You can’t seem to _let go_ of it; you yank it free, and the teeth of the serrated blade gleefully chew at veins and arteries before receding. The man before you balks and flounders backwards, blood spurting forth from the cavernous wound with a devilish fervor.  You taste a sickly copper on your lips, red splashes your vision, but you just vainly flatten yourself against the wall.  All you can do gape, knife in hand and watch the life seep out of the goon’s eyes before he crumples to the ground with a sickening _thud_.

               Nothing feels real.  You’re _hollow_ , the world has stopped spinning but the air around you still swerves out of the alley.  Blood is continuing to drain onto the ground, mixing with dirty puddles before it can reach your shoes and you’re struck with the thought you’re absolutely _covered_ in blood.  You must look _horrendous_.

What are you supposed to do now?

Do you go to the police? You chew at the inside of your cheek, and look to the wicked blade in your hand.  It might be difficult to look innocent when you’re the only one here with a weapon.  Maybe you could hide it?   
No, no—that would just make you look guilty.  Maybe you could hide the body, instead? There’s a dumpster nearby, though it confounds you how you could ever possibly heft such a brute by yourself.

You look at your knife again, this time with some reluctance.

…You might need a bigger knife, but—

A clanking noise violently dislocates your thoughts.  Your glare snaps towards the offending sound, and you see it, _there_ , a shadow—a person?  Oh god, _a witness_? 

Before your brain can catch up with the situation, your feet swing to life—and run in the other direction, back to the restaurant. Your free hand trembles as you snatch the keys out of your pocket and jam it into the lock; you look behind you, but barely register the obscured figure slinking towards the scene of the crime.  As soon as you wrench the door open, you blunder through and lock it behind you with a quick snap.

_Oh god._

_You just wanted to go home and now you’re going to go to jail for murder._

You swallow thickly and strain to hear into the alleyway, but your thoughts are muddled with a thousand tiny inconvenient exclamations.  What you might say to the police, where you could go, what you can take with you. Where are you going to stay?

…Whatever you do, you probably shouldn’t wander the streets covered in blood.  You shamble forward, and when you’re safely through the kitchen and in the staff bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror.

The person staring back at you in the mirror feels like a stranger; emotionless and pale, eyes still wide like some startled animal.  You drop the knife into the sink with a loud clatter that rings in your ears and you quickly twist the faucet, and the sink gushes to life with spluttering water.  Gently, you lean forward, and bring a hand up to your face in a weak effort to smear away some blood, but _god, there’s so much_.  It coats your cheek and lips, and has drenched your shirt.  _The best thing to do would probably be burning them,_ you consider languidly before you shirk off the offending clothing.  There’s always your chef coat hanging somewhere in the kitchen.

As you take the time to clean, get rid of some evidence, some semblance of reason comes back to you.  The jolt of adrenaline is still there but the panic has ebbed away, and once again you can breathe.  You feel a bit like yourself again.

And you feel absolutely no guilt.  Should you be worried about that?  
Maybe, but it isn’t like he’s some innocent bystander.  He came at you first. 

It’s too late to go to the police, and you still aren’t exactly sure what you would say.  You finish cleaning the bathroom sink, and search for any spots you may have missed on your way in.

…You could just go home.  This wouldn’t be the first corpse New Orleans wakes up to, and you could deny any involvement.  Your knife is spotless, your clothes burnt to a crisp, and not to brag but you’re pretty thorough with cleaning, when you want to be.  Naturally, you aren’t finished—there’s the blood on the door you probably left in your fearful retreat, but once that’s sorted, you’ll have nothing to link the crime with the restaurant, or you.

If that witness showed up? _It was Mardi Gras, they were probably too drunk to keep track of the time, I left way earlier, I wasn’t there,_ you recite as you gently return the murderous blade to the rest of your collection (unfortunately, your bag had been drenched in blood; you’d have to get another later. For now, they’re rolled up in an old coat until you can get home). 

You can lie to people.  You lie to people all the time… just on a less impactful scale.  You’ll get through this.

You take a deep breath, and softly unlock the door.  Praying to God, to whatever god that might exist, ( _I’ll be a better person, I swear, I’ll start going to church or whatever you want, just let me get through this in one piece,_ ) you force the exit silently ajar and peer through. 

Dawn is just barely hedging the sky.  A crisp, drizzly morning.  New Orleans is still fast asleep and still recovering from no doubt its worst hangover of the year.  You can make out the sound of birds chirping pleasantly in the distance.  As you crane your neck to check the other side of the door, you’re relieved to find no trace of blood.  Nothing to suggest your involvement.  Your gaze flickers down the alley.

 

 _The body is gone_.

After a double-take, you have to cover your mouth to suppress a shocked squawk as you fling yourself back to safety, behind sturdy wood and iron hinges.  All that consternation you’d slowly worked out of your system is back in full force.  Ten seconds, twenty seconds pass before you snoop out of the door again.  Bodies don’t just _disappear_.  And there’s no way in hell that bastard lived—but at the same time, people don’t just _take bodies_ , do they?  A tiny voice in the back of your mind snarks, _maybe something was hungry_.   
               Well, it’s not like alligators _aren’t_ a problem here.  Strangely convenient though, if one so happened on your little crime scene and took care of the issue, so far in the city.  And it’s a little too clean, isn’t it?

Clearly, you’re overthinking it.  You shuffle out the door, bundled knives clutched to your chest. 

It’s done.  It’s over with.  You lock the door one more time for the day and very cautiously begin making your way home, your steps growing more confidant as you continue. All you have to do is move on and forward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some issues with writing/finishing this chapter (thus if you see any grammar/spelling/errors, it's because I'm going to deal with them later- it might get revised later on, too, if I'm not still completely happy with it), but I hope y'all enjoy it. Since I started this before I posted anything, future chapters, if I continue, might be slower. They also might be shorter (these two chapters have been about seven pages each), and will involve a few bigger time skips to speed things along.  
> Thanks! Hope all y'all are having a good week.  
> ______________________________________________________________________________

             There is no battalion of police officers out for your blood when you wake up.  There’s no sign of any upset whatsoever; if you hadn’t been the culprit—or really, the victim— you’d never guessed a crime had occurred. (Though, yes, despite your arduous journey home, the meat in your icebox had still rotted.  Part of you feels bitter that all the trouble to get home was for nothing.)

               In fact, _nothing_ happens.  The entire day is filled with an almost tedious mundanity, and as the final hours wane into night, your sole feeling is one of deep relief.

             The next day, you saunter through the usual alley with only a little trepidation.  Everything seeming so perfectly prosaic bothers you the most, and you inspect every inch before you slip into work. Despite your vivid memories, nothing is out of place.  You try not to think about it.  
               Rosalie, your [figurative] partner in crime is already waiting for you.  She’s at least a head shorter than you are though her head of frizzy curls, captured in a tight bun, more than makes up the difference.  Her freckled hands work at the dough like magic, a smooth, practiced motion that you usually find absorbing.  She huffs at you.

“Where have you been?” Mild annoyance delicately embeds itself in her tone, her accent lilting as she glances over her shoulder, “I thought we were _both_ supposed to come in early.”

“Sorry.  I got lost in thought, and forgot,” you respond dumbly.

“You think too much.”

You snort in response as you take your place next to her. “One of us has to.”

At that, she cackles and flicks some flour in your direction.

“Has as the Sous Chef come in yet?”

“No, I think he’s still sick. You know how he gets during Mardi Gras.”

                Any tension you had felt from before eases immediately, and you bicker at each other playfully as you prepare for the day’s meals.  You lose yourself in your tasks, the occasional banter from Rosalie.  Before you know it, the morning transitions to the rhythmic orders and calls from the kitchen.   This goes on for some time, and you don’t notice someone calling you until they’re right next to you.  You gasp with a start, knuckles turning white as your hand tightens around the knife you’re using.

“ _Wake up!_ ” the athletic-looking waiter in front of you pokes at your shoulder with a hiss.

You shoot the waiter an insulted glare, “What the hell, don’t sneak up on me!”

“I _wasn’t_ sneaking up on you, you should be paying attention!” he rolls his eyes and jabs at you again accusingly, “anyway, someone’s asking for you.”

At this, both you and Rosalie eye the waiter, then each other.

“Who is it?” Rosalie pipes up, a little too eager.

“Probably no one—” You hold up your hands dismissively, but the waiter continues.

“Someone you met at Mardi Gras?”

               There is a tiny, abrupt silence as a devilish look overcomes Rosalie’s usually angelic features.  You must appear properly mortified, or shocked, because the waiter is far too pleased with himself.  He quickly flees. 

“You _met_ someone?”

“ _Not like that_.”

“Like what, then?”

“We just talked, is all.”

“And they want to see you again, huh? Must’ve been some talk,” she snickers as you wipe your hands a little too quickly, and a fellow cook whistles as you scuttle out the door.  Before it can fully shutter closed, you hear Rosalie add, “It’s good to see you making more friends!”

             You, in your dirty apron, walk into a bustling dining room.  Based on the orders coming in, it must be nearing lunch, and you weave through a troupe of posh brunch goers and some regulars that utter small greetings as you pass.  The only new face that catches your attention has an eager smile plastered to it, and its owner pops up from his seat as you make eye contact.

“Alastor!” the genuine surprise is evident as you croak, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Well, I simply had to check up on you!  What sort of gentleman would I be otherwise, after your harrowing ordeal?”

“What?”  Your reply is more intense than you intend, but if he noticed your tone, he doesn’t bring it up.

“At the festivities, of course,” he bends down slightly and pats one of your hands in a gallant gesture, “what with that brutish rube, harassing you like that.”

“What? Oh,” you feel the sudden tension in your chest ease, “I wouldn’t call that an _ordeal_.  Really, I can handle myself.”

“Of _that_ I have no doubts, my dear.” 

 _Something_ about the way Alastor says that gives you pause.  You don’t have time to analyze it, but something about that grin is too knowing.  It doesn’t sit well with you.  He gestures at the seat opposite him and continues, “But please, sit! Sit down, I’d adore the company.”

“I, uh,” you straighten your apron, and nod your head back towards the kitchens, “I’d love to, but I’ve got to get back to work right now.”

Alastor deflates a fraction, but his grin remains firmly cemented, “Oh.  Of course, of course.  I wouldn’t dare keep you too long.  But perhaps, if I might be so bold to ask for more of your time later, my dear? After your shift?”

The way his eyes fixate on you makes your heart palpitate. “I—uh, sure, that—”

“Perfect!” his enthusiasm catches the attention of a few other tables—some diners recognize your new acquaintance and begin gossiping with baited breath, “ _absolutely_ wonderful! Tell me, when might be a better time?”

You explain your shift’s end is a few hours away, to which Alastor perks up and beams.  He squeezes your hand with a gentle fervor that sends a jolt of electricity zipping through your arm. 

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer.  Until then, my dear,” he inclines his head before returning to his seat. 

              You know he’s still watching you when you turn and beeline for the safety of your kitchen.  In fact, you get the sensation _everyone_ is staring at you.  Gossiping vultures lurking in seats, waiters that skitter around you, the regulars staring at you with clear amusement.  To your horror, half of kitchen staff are piled at the doors, precariously leaning over each other to get a better view.  They return your betrayed expression with one of eager glee and scatter as you approach.  By the time you slip back into the scullery, the only one waiting for you is Rosalie.  Her arms are crossed and she’s smiling wickedly at you.

“He seems pretty dashing, doesn’t he?”

“ _Rosie_ , it’s not like that.”

“I don’t know,” she sings, leaning against the counter with a teasing look, “it looked like _he_ thinks you’re the bee’s knees.”

“Y’all know who that is, right?”  both of you turn to face a wispy chef with a nasally Southern voice, face glowing with excitement as she drops a blue catfish upon her cutting board to focus on the pair of you.

“Should I?” Rosalie shrugs.

“That’s _Alastor_ ,” the cook raises her eyebrows in disbelief, “the guy on the radio all the time?  The ‘ _dreamy’_ one?  You listen to him like, every week.”

“ _He’s that guy?_ ” your friend’s eyes go wide and her voice squeaks.  She swats at your shoulder, “ _Why_ didn’t you tell me it was _him_?”

You fruitlessly attempt to dodge, “I didn’t know! I didn’t think I’d see him after Mardi Gras!”

“Well, you’re seein’ him now!” Rosalie hops a little, stray curls bobbing up and down, “Are you gonna see him again?”

“Uh,” you shrink under their combined gaze, “after my shift?”

With that knowledge, some quiet cheers erupt from the kitchen staff.  The wispy chef returns to her fish, and Rosalie chatters excitedly. “Alright, spill the beans.  Tell me _everything_.”

***

               Several hours and an avid interrogation later, you clean your station and shuck off your chef’s coat.  Despite her invasive questions, you manage to make it sound like an uneventful evening. Rosalie is close at your heels and you both peek out into the dining room.

“Do you see him?”

“I don’t know, it’s too busy.” You shuffle further out, peering awkwardly at the sea of people.

“Oh— _oh_ , is that him?” Rosalie stands on her toes and waves a pointing hand haphazardly.  You do your best to follow her, until you pinpoint the familiar cheery face.

“Yup, there he is.”

Rosalie makes a modest, squeaking noise and reaches your shoulders.  With some effort, she pulls you down and kisses each cheek.  “Remember—”

“Tell you everything, I got it, yeah,” you nod with a strained little smile and pull away.  She flails her arm in an exuberant farewell as you walk towards Alastor.  God, you love her, but she’s made prying into people’s lives a second profession.  Especially when it’s _your_ life.

“And who might this be?”

               Somehow, Alastor has crept through the torrential crowd and is now watching the two of you.  A tiny peeping noise that you’ve never heard before escapes Rosalie when she realizes he’s looking her up and down with a smooth grin.  You gesture at your shorter friend.  “This is—”

“ _Rosalie_ ,” she interrupts to rigorously shake Alastor’s hand.  You can see stars sparkling in her eyes, “The name’s Rosalie! God, I’m—I’m so excited to meet you, your show’s the best!”

               If Alastor is remotely bothered by your friend’s sudden awestruck nature, he masks it well. He matches her exuberance and clasps his other hand around hers.  A short, bubbling guffaw erupts from him, and he cranes downwards to meet Rosalie at eye level.

“ _Love_ the moxie, sweetheart! Always wonderful to meet a woman with good taste,” he winks at her, and despite herself, Rosalie swoons. 

               He’s definitely a smooth cruiser, you were right about that.  There aren’t a lot of people that can make Rosalie weak at the knees so quickly, though you posit that being her favourite radio personality probably gives him an unfair advantage.  You don’t move to intervene, and Rosalie spends the next few minutes chattering with a rising bubbly excitement.  Alastor is basking in the onslaught of compliments—though you don’t fail to notice his more evasive nature when she starts asking more personal questions.

“I hate to be a drag, but,” he uses his lanky frame to his advantage, slinking towards you in one long stride and gripping your shoulders, “I _did_ promise your friend—”

“ _Oh_!” a flush creeps into Rosalie’s cheeks, wide eyes darting between the two of you, “Don’t let me keep you, you two go have fun!  Don’t be strangers!”

She sneaks in a sly look towards you, which you ardently ignore.  You simply smile and wave, and allow Alastor to guide you out of the restaurant.

***

               By the end of your pleasant jaunt, you aren’t exactly sure where you two have ended up.  Alastor might have plans for you, but he’s made no mention of them if he does— the walk has been mostly filled with friendly banter, colloquial gossip about neighbours and events.  You throw in a few jokes, the more sardonic and morbid quips you reserve for close friends, and manage to make him snort with laughter more than once.  Now, in a comfortable silence, you actually take time observe your surroundings.  You’re surprised to find that, wherever you are, it’s sort of… deserted—you’d think someone so dapper would be more into the hot spots of New Orleans.  Then again, he does seem a bit like a man who enjoys his private life.  It’s not like this is a _bad_ area, either.  Just a little _emptier_ than you expected.

“I must say,” Alastor interrupts your thoughts and links an arm with yours, “I think I owe you an apology, my dear.”

You have to do a doubletake at him and try to blink the confusion from your face.  Did you two have completely different conversations?  Did you miss something?

“What? What for?”

“I mean,” he huffs out a breath, shifting to give your arm a friendly pat with his free hand, “when we first met. A little before, even, I hate to say it, but I may have made a few…assumptions.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm,” he nods a little solemnly, “they weren’t exactly the most accommodating.”

The way he’s picking his words so carefully makes you snort.  He peeks at you with a little nervous curiosity. “Really?  Anything specific?”

“Mm, not particularly.”

              You laugh outright.  He’s not exactly squeamish on the matter, but his usual bravado is punctuated with an awkwardness you’re not used to.  Alastor bristles, and while he doesn’t make eye contact with you, indignity is clear on his face.

“Fine, fine.  You wouldn’t be the first one, at any rate,” you use your shoulder to nudge him, “you don’t, uh, think that way now, at least?”

               At that, Alastor pauses and makes a small, thoughtful noise.  When he speaks a minute later, his tone is pensive.

“No, I don’t,” he muses, casting a sidelong glance towards you with a look you can’t quite discern, “you’ve proven to be quite… surprising.”

“ _Surprising_?” you echo dumbly, “What do you mean?”

 “Oh, a number of things!  You’ve been a breath of fresh air, my dear.” he shifts, hopping to your other side and leaning in until his chin is barely above your shoulder, “that wonderful smile of yours is quite the bonus, too.”

You feel a blush crawling up your neck and an awkward laugh bubbles out of you.

“So, uh,” the smile lingers on your face, and you turn to face Alastor’s cheeky, pearly-white grin, “where exactly are we going?”

“Why, just a simple stroll!”

                You’re keenly aware his eyes are glued to you, even as the pair of you walk— or, _you’re_ walking.  The way Alastor’s moving is more like he’s gliding stylishly next to you. It’s evident even in your peripherals and his stare is almost _expectant,_ though you can’t fathom why.  All you are sure of is it fills you with that same uneasy feeling as the night you met him.  But there’s also this new, flittering excitement that burdens your mind that you’re positive is caused by Alastor.  That jaunty flair of his is a factor, of course, but it’s that certain… _something_.  Those small, vulturine moments, that evasive and wily nature of his that makes him enigmatic.  A sort of puzzle that keeps dragging you closer.  You don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad one, but you’re too intrigued to scram out now.

“…-re you alright, my dear?” you’re jolted from your thoughts as a firm grip closes over your shoulder.  You blink and tilt your gaze to meet his fully.  Alastor peers down at you and pulls you into a sharp turn; a vague sense of familiarity washes over you as you’re led down a street.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I think we lost you there for a minute, sweetheart,” Alastor cocks an eyebrow, amused, “are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, hitting on all eight here,” you nudge your shoulder into his arm, “just got caught up in a thought is all.”

“Oh?” he looks particularly intrigued, “Care to share?”

“Hm, not particularly.” Your lips curl into a wide smile.  When he realizes you’re poking fun at him, he acts hurt but can’t hide a low chortle.  You wave a cheeky hand, “But seriously, I was just thinking about… Mardi Gras.” (Yes, that’s a lie, but you can’t just come out and say _“Oh, Mr. Alastor, I was just thinking about how mysterious you are”_ , can you?)

“Hmm? What about it?”

“Just…” your brow quirks downwards, quizzical, “Just, uh, if you weren’t too keen on me, what made you stay?”

               Alastor ponders your words with an expression that mirrors yours before offering a coy shrug, “Oh, I’ve been starved of… _conversation_ for quite some time.  Lucky for me, you were there—” he leans closer, hand hovering in front of his mouth to hide his utterance, “—it’s been hard to find someone that shares my good sense of humour.”

You snort a little, “Well, I can’t blame them.  With all the murders, a lot of people are too scared to indulge in, uh, morbid jokes.”

“And you aren’t frightened?”

               At that, you shrug. “A healthy amount, I guess.  But, uh, death happens.  Murder happens, ignoring it doesn’t change anything.  We have to learn to live with it or we’ll get nothing done, right?  Anyways, I’ve butchered my fair share of animals, I’m pretty much desensitized at this point.”

              A minute passes in silence, and you realize Alastor is watching you with a look that’s… you don’t know how to describe it.  Fascinated?  It’s not so much disturbed as surprised.  His smile is still there, but those expressive eyes are wide and his head is tilted slightly.  You’re both processing what you said at the exact same time, and it dawns on you that your wording was, perhaps, less than _ideal_.

“…Not, er, not that I’m calling people animals.” God, he must be thinking you’re a damn murderer now.  You want to scuttle back home and never come out. “I’m not—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” his hand flutters over your shoulder compassionately as he nods, “I think I know exactly what you’re saying.  No harm done.”

“Good,” you give a deep sigh and rub at your eyes, “I guess I need to work on my, uh, wording.  It’s been a while since I’ve been out of a kitchen.”

“Well, my dear! You’re in luck,” Alastor shrugs with a lofty flair as he leads you down another sharp corner, “I happen to be _very_ charismatic.”

“And humble, too, I see.”

            He guffaws, and suddenly you’re both dodging and weaving through a small crowd.  It takes you a few seconds, but as your eyes scan the familiar faces and surrounding buildings, you’re shocked.  How did you end up here?

“This is my street.”  You announce absently, instinctively looking at the window of your small apartment.  When you’d left work, you’d both walked in the opposite direction from your house—when the hell did you get turned around?  You twist to glace at the alley you came out of, but it’s imperceptible through the lazy throng of people surrounding you.

“Really?” your new friend exclaims, with what you consider to be a little too much bravado, “What a marvelous coincidence!”

               It’s more odd than marvelous, you consider, but it’s not exactly _unreasonable_ to assume it’s just that.   A tiny, passing coincidence you don’t have to think further on.  Really, it’s not like you have proof otherwise, other than a gut feeling and Alastor’s somewhat eccentric quirks that put you on edge.  
_Still_.  You should probably be a bit more wary in the near future, especially if this isn’t just some ‘ _marvelous coincidence_ ’.

“Did you—uh,” you shuffle your feet against the old stone road, “did you want a coffee or--?”

“Oh, no, no no, my dear,” he playfully eschews the thought, “I’d love to, but duty calls.  You know how it is in radio.” With that, he fusses with his jacket’s lapel, clearly chuffed.

“Ah, right.  I totally get it,” you reply in complete ignorance.  He inclines his head towards you with that rakish look you’re starting to grow familiar with.  “See you later, Alastor.”

“Not if I see you first ~,” he swivels on his heels and offers a smooth wave before promptly vanishing in the dispersing crowd. 

               You release a heavy sigh and take a few steps back.  A deep red sunset is starting to gently eclipse the buildings, the distant sound of drums and saxophones ushers in another vibrant (and, in your opinion, haphazard) night.  How did it get to be so late?

Not that you mind—there are worse ways to whittle away the remaining hours of the day.  You hum to yourself thoughtfully, closing the gap between you and the door and slipping into your comforting abode.


	3. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With everything going on right now, it's taking way too long to write, so I've decided to just post some of the work so far and try to post a bit more frequently in smaller installments that I'll have to edit later (at some point if I don't forget, lol). It'll still be slow, but better than nothing.

A few weeks have passed since that delightfully odd jaunt, and Alastor has since proceeded to integrate himself into your life.  It's become routine now, poking your head out of the kitchen to find him schmoozing customers or chatting up the waitstaff.  His gaze would flicker over to the kitchen doors and, once spotting you, would promptly excuse himself and beeline over with an exuberant wave.  He'd chortle out the usual greeting, and the two of you would talk for hours.  

Neither of you are prone to waxing philosophy, but Alastor is as dramatic as they come.  You have to hold back a snort whenever he snowballs into theatrical monologue, throwing his arms into a histrionic pose.  The pair of you gossip and jabber, and you learn that his sense of humour is  _much darker_  than you initially surmised- not that it dissuades you in the least.  In fact, you match his wit, which sometimes earns you the odd stare from eavesdroppers, but Alastor seems utterly charmed by. 

You've also come to learn that despite the showy banter, your new friend has mastered the art of saying very,  _very_  little, especially about his personal life.  On occasion, you pry, but he merely tuts and continues on a colourful oration.

The alarm on your clock chimes rudely in your ears, ripping you away from a particularly comfortable dream.  Buried beneath cozy sheets and covers, you let out a low groan and fight with the loyal, infernal machine next to you until it's finally silenced.  Another bleary weekday morning has rolled in, and you slip reluctantly out of bed, stumbling into your ailing kitchen for coffee.  It's far too inhumanly early to be up- a common complaint you can offer to only yourself- but it gives you time to enjoy some of the peace and quiet before the day truly begins. 

As you pour into a lonely, ancient cup, a knock briskly assaults your door. 

The sound is enough to make you jump out of your skin, and you scramble to reacquire the coffeepot before it can clatter to the floor.   

"??" You make a noise somewhere between a startled grunt and a word. Hell, you're not even dressed, what if it’s complete stranger? (Or worse, police-- you eschew the thought as you shuffle to find pants.) "Uh- er, just a second!" 

You fling yourself to your closet and unceremoniously throw on the first shirt you find, then hop over to the door as you work your socks over your feet. 

At least you’re dressed now, for whoever the hell is insane enough to be up this early—

"Good morning!" 

You sputter incoherently as Alastor, put together as always, stands in your doorway with his usual bravado.  In his hands rests a sumptuous casserole dish.  You ogle the container, confused, as he looks you over and guffaws. 

"Not much of a morning person, hmm?" With you leaning against the doorframe, and his natural height, Alastor seems to tower over you. 

"The morning and I get along just fine," your voice creaks, "I just, uh, I'm not used to company so early." 

He offers a small hum.  

"May I come in?" He looks to you expectantly and slithers in a second before you pull yourself out of the doorway. 

Blinking the remaining sleep from your eyes, you heave out a gentle sigh and close the door.  Alastor inspects your apartment in earnest, though his smile seems to wane as he notes the blatant imperfections. 

"You have a..." he drawls, just barely, as he thinks of a proper word, " _cozy_  apartment." 

"You can just say small, you know," you offer coffee to him in a single gesture (which he declines in kind), " ' _Well used_ ', maybe.  But it's cheap, it works for what I need." 

Alastor makes a small, musing sound that borders judgmental before setting the casserole dish down with a clatter.  He doesn’t say anything more on the matter, but he doesn’t have to.  Though you’ve done your best to work with what you have and created a cozy, clean little den away from the world but —well.  He’s right.  It’s _still_ a shitty little apartment, though you can’t help but take a little umbrage.

“So, uh,” you eye the dish with curiosity, “what brought you _all the way_ over here?  Must’ve been a long walk over, especially this early.”

He sits with a flourish and gives you a speculative glance over his shoulder— probably a response to your choice of words.  For all the time he’s spent enmeshing himself into your life, he’s not really given you the chance to do the same; you’ve taken these small moments to try and glean whatever information you can (unsuccessfully).

“Oh, no distance is too far for a dear friend!” he replies eagerly, hands splayed on the rickety table as he leans forward, “Besides, little early bird, I thought you could use a real meal.”

With that, one of his hands slink across the table, one finger hooking onto the lid’s handle to reveal its contents.  It’s a rustic, something like a family dish, which is surprising.  You’d expect a meal from Alastor to be more elegant—not that diverts any of the dish’s indulgence.  As soon as the pluming aroma slams into you, your mouth is watering.  Whatever dish he’s concocted, it’s absolutely sinful.

"You're always so sluggish in the morning," Alastor, fingers interlocking into a tight bridge where he props his chin, "I've been worried you aren't eating enough _actual meals_.  Not just that—" he wrinkles his nose in disdain, and he nods at the offending cup you’re clutching, “— _poor excuse_ for breakfast.”

You pause before silently conceding his point; he shoots you a cheeky grin in reply and pushes the dish an inch more towards you.

"It smells  _amazing,"_ you inhale as you stand, and in two quick strides you dig through a cupboard and fish out two matching plates, "how do you have the time to do this?" 

"To be quite frank, dear," he shrugs, hands unfolding to take the plates and starts dishing the food, "I couldn't sleep! So I thought to myself, why not do something productive?" 

"What?  You just didn’t sleep at all?" You squawk.  Alastor tenses slightly at your outburst, apparently taken aback as you scrutinize him.  A few of your coworkers suffer from sleepless nights, and they all tend to be worse for wear if they don’t turn to some outside source—even then, those have consequences.  He seems far too energetic for barbiturates, and too controlled to over-imbibe or self-medicate.  You could be wrong, but somehow you doubt that.  Despite his impressively chipper attitude, you’re concerned.   "Are you, uh, sick? Or something?  You—”

"No, no," he offers a playful wave before you can continue fussing, "no need to fret, dear.  Just some …unexpected troubles at work I had to tend to."   

You take the now full plate of food he offers to you and return to your chair, "Oh?" 

"Well, you know." He rolls his eyes dramatically, "People make things so much more difficult than they have to be." 

" _Oh_.  Right, I know how that goes."  

Really, you have absolutely no idea why on earth a radio station would keep him so late—not that you know much about anything to do with radio, other than _listening_ to it.  But you _do_ know how people can get.  You scowl faintly as you flashback to the more repugnant customers, and suppress a shudder.

“ _Exactly_ ,” he mirrors your expression, a stern, thin-lipped grimace as he nods, “People are just—well, they can be stubborn as pigs!” Alastor chortles abruptly, and you wonder if you’ve missed some inside joke. “But please, don’t let me stop you!  Eat!  Before your food gets cold.”

You quirk an eyebrow quizzically, a huff of humoured air leaving you as before scooping a heaping forkful of food.  Alastor’s initial overzealous interest in watching you eat unnerves you for a split second.  It’s a fairly new sensation—you’d thought you had become desensitized to your friend’s staring, but something about how _fixated_ he is throws you off.  The tantalizing smell wafting towards you, however, shakes you from your discomfort.  You begin to eat without further delay.

It’s as wonderful as it smells; you perk up immediately.  A tad over-seasoned, a little choppy on the knifework if you were being hypercritical, but its combined spiciness and indulgent nature is a perfect wakeup call.  And the meat is cooked to _absolute_ perfection.

When you tell him just as much (without the critiques), your friend is overtly chuffed with himself.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” he sounds a little too smug to be humble, “just a family recipe.”

You barely pause your chewing to pipe up, “Family recipe, huh? Any cooks in your family, then?”

“Not anymore.”  You find the profound cheer in his reply… _off-putting_.   While it would be par the course for your usual humour, he seems to be completely serious.  There’s a terse nature to how he stabs at his food, too, and a thinness to his smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  Something tells you that he won’t divulge any further on the subject, and you don’t feel too pressed to try your luck.

“Oh.” You awkwardly twiddle your fork between your fingers, “Uh.  Sorry to hear that.”

“Nothing to apologize for, my dear,” in a snap, the eerie aura dissipates and Alastor is back to his usual charm.  The rest of the meal is spent with meaningless banter.  It isn’t until you look at your clock that you speak up again.

“Oh, _damn_!” in a flurry of motion, you gather the now empty plates and promptly shuffle them into the sink. 

Alastor starts, baffled by your sudden outburst “Excuse me?”

“I’m gonna be late for work!”

“Ah.”  He effortlessly rises from his seat, clearly amused as you struggle shovel your feet into worn boots and walk at the same time.  While it takes you half a dozen hops to reach your door, Alastor makes it in two long strides.

“Well, come on, let’s get going.”

“What?  Aren’t you exhausted?” You affix a coat over your shoulders and hop out the door, with Alastor quickly in toe.  The door shuts dutifully behind him.

“Never!” He barks out a laugh.  His voice cuts clear through the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes are at the bottom this time.

You aren’t surprised of Alastor’s jovial attitude as you scuttle down the winding path to work, though you can’t fathom how he’s so wide awake.   Though he’s a little too loud (if the old woman shushing you both as you pass by is any indication), you do find yourself enjoying the company.  It feels too soon when you find yourself approaching your usual alley to work. 

“Thank you for breakfast, Alastor,” as you speak, your arm snakes around your friend’s shoulders in a polite enough embrace, “I’ll see you after later?”

When he doesn’t respond, you twist to look up at him, to find him _staring_ at you.  Not just the usual, predatory stare he offers when he thinks no one’s looking; an owlish, wide-eyed stare, head tilting just a fraction as he examines your face.  Surprise is evident—shock, maybe.  Anything else he could be feeling remains a mystery to you.

“Uh,” you shuffle your feet and very quickly make a small distance between the two of you, “was that weird? I—”

“No! Not at all, I just—” for one bizarre instance, you think he looks _flustered_ , as he feigns a small cough and readjusts his coat, “—wasn’t expecting it that.  But yes! We’ll talk later, of course. Now, scurry along, my friend, off you go! Can’t have you being late, can we?”

His response makes you huff out a breathy laugh, and you wave idly before twisting away and hopping into your galley.  You’re greeted with a tiny but cacophonous chorus of  _hello’s_  as you slip into your chef’s coat with practiced ease.  One of your coworkers throws a jokingly lewd statement your way, but Rosie (who is always there to rescue you) tosses flour at your verbal assailant and barks out something in Spanish you don't quite catch.  She then skitters over to you in some giddy excitement. 

“You’re here on time!” a few of her loose curls bounce as she closes the gap in a tight hug.   

“I’m usually here on time” you grouse, but oblige the embrace.  She looks around your shoulder, then waggles an eyebrow suggestively at you. 

“I see you’ve brought a friend over ~ “   
 

“What— I didn’t—“ 

  

“Well, I just  _had_  to see what goes on back here!” You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.  He must’ve snuck in behind you before the door closed.  “Where the  _magic_  happens!” 

You hear another coworker giggle flagrantly behind you.  When you wiggle out of Rosalie’s grasp to twist around, you find Alastor closely eyeing a few simmering pots.   

“Gosh, you’ve become such a  _rule breaker_ ,” she beams up at you, “Wait ‘till our sous chef hears about this.” 

“ _Oh my god_ , don’t tell him Rosie, you know how he is with, uh, guests in the kitchen.” 

“ _Relax_.  He won’t be here for a few hours, and Alastor isn’t a guest!” 

Alastor pipes up.  “Absolutely right! I’m your plus one!  Now, where’s your station?”  Both of your friends stare at you expectantly. 

You’re being ganged up on.  Accosted by your own friends, in your own kitchen.  Your shoulders slump, defeated, and you concede with a reluctant gesture towards your station.  Alastor somehow makes it over there before you do. 

“What do you  _do_ over here exactly?”  He’s rummaging through your tools now, expertly so.  It's only now, watching him sift and sort through containers and drawers, that you take notice of his hands.  They're decorated in faint scars, and callouses that extend from his palms to the tips of his fingers.  Definitely not the hands you'd suspect a radio host to have. 

“Uh, depends on what’s needed.” You glance over at Rosie for a second, and she mouths your answer.  “Today I’m working on meats.” 

“Fascinating,” before you can stop him, he inspects your knives and picks up the serrated blade with a particularly keen interest, “Which one of these do you use, then?” 

“It—” you fight the urge to snatch the knife away, instead fidgeting with your hands, “It really depends on what I’m cutting into.” 

He only offers a small hum in reply, a careful thumb against one of the bread knife's eager teeth; his gaze only slides over to you, languidly, after you reclaim your tool with a practiced hand a moment later. 

(Though, you’ve lately seen it more as a  _weapon_  than anything else.  Part of you feels guilty for neglecting your knives for so long, but the thought of trying to bring them home again leaves you with a vibrant pang of anxiety.) 

"It gets, uh-" you shift and prompt Alastor to move as one of the other chefs bustles behind you with an enormous pot, the delectable scent of french onion soup trailing behind, "- pretty damn hectic.  If you want to stay back here-" 

"Fret not, my dear!" He offers up his most charming smile and puts a hand on your shoulder, "You won't even know I'm here." 

 

*** 

 

Alastor breaks his promise almost immediately.   

 

At least, at first.  Questions bubble out of him like a font as you continue your prep.  He's lucky you find him so damn endearing, otherwise you'd be irked by the interruptions.  Instead, you answer his questions and offer quips and banter in return.  Though, when Rosalie tries to join in, Alastor seems...stony?  A little dismissive, even, but the kitchen is so loud that he may have just not heard her over the racket.   

 Somehow, that excuse doesn't sit well with you.  You can easily read the disappointment on Rosie's face and do your best to bridge whatever the conversation until the scullery falls into its usual rhythm. 

When conversation dies down, Alastor becomes your shadow, fluidly avoiding the whirlwind of chef coats and scalding pans.  At this point though, you barely heed him any mind, too absorbed in your work.   _In your element_ , as Rosie puts it.  At this point, you don't have to look at your hands, flying into practiced motion, knives swiveling with expert precision as you debone, cleave and carve into assorted meats.  

You only deign to pry your gaze away from the meat station once the meat is completely prepped for the impending rush of customers. Alastor has been absurdly silent for the past hour, so much so that you can’t help but wonder if he'd been carried off by a coworker or slipped out without your knowledge.  But sure enough, when you glance over, he's still there, peering over your shoulder. There's an expression plastered to his face that you can’t rightly describe- something akin to awe, but deeper.  A light flickers in his eyes, one that you find equal parts enticing and foreboding.  

Rosalie bumps into your shoulder with a fist to get your attention.  

"Sous chef is here!" She hisses the words urgently, and your head whips around backdoors. 

"What? Shit, he's early," you stumble to wash your hands. 

 "He's not  _early_ , he's on time." 

"That’s what I said!" Darting back over, you press a sure hand to Alastor's back and start to shoo him towards the restaurant floor. "Sorry to kick you out like this." 

"Oh, hush!  You apologize too much," he waves dismissively as he slithers in front of you, "same time as usual?" 

"Always." 

With that, Alastor promptly turns on his heel to face you, dipping into a short, gentlemanly bow.  He winks at you before glides out the door. 

 

Right. Crises averted.  

 

You and Rosie return to your station at the same time. 

"Where is he?" 

"Can't find his lighter," Rosalie rolls her eyes, raising one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. 

"Rosie,  _you_ have his lighter." 

" _Had_." 

You scoff and shake your head. "I'll go get him." 

Despite your scolding tone, the two of you share wry grins before you scuttle back to the alley. 

The exit opens with a hearty creak, and as you slip outside you are greeted to the slouched figure of your sous chef fruitlessly inspecting the ground with some dismay. 

 

To say that Parish Ward is  _tall_  is a gross understatement.  He towers over most people, something that you initially found intimidating when you first joined the brigade.  Despite his stoic and sometimes rigid nature, you've discovered he's about as tough as a marshmallow.  Over the years, he and Rosalie have become your dearest friends. 

He cranes up to look at you with a ruffled pout.  Dark bags hang under his eyes, and his nose looks like it’s been on the losing end of one too many fights, yet he somehow manages to look endearing.  An unlit cigarette hangs from his mouth with a lackadaisical energy. 

 " _Cher_ , I can't find my lighter." 

"You let Rosie borrow it." You fold your arms loosely, "Again." 

The mistake he's made dawns on him, and you can't help but snort derisively as his shoulders sag in defeat. 

"Don't mock my misfortune,  _cher_." 

"I'm not, I'm mocking  _you_." 

At that he guffaws, a sturdy, distinctive sound. "Does she have it--?" 

"--At her house.  Mm-hmm." 

Parish's eyes squeeze shut for an instant before straightening to his full height, "I'll have to buy another one then.  God damn it." 

You pat his shoulder in faux-sympathy as you lead him to the kitchen. "There, there." 

"Oh,  _shut up."_  

As you reenter the kitchen, the crew cheers blithely, in unison: " _You're early!_ "

" _Shut up_ , I'm on time!" His protests only make the crew laugh, and he swats in their general direction, " _Je n’ai besoin d’aucun de tes conneries_ , get to work! Someone— get those doors open, there's a line forming!" 

 

***  

  

The next few hours are a blur, and before you can blink, your shift is over.  

  The last is being tucked away when you see Rosie approaching you.  She inspects you and your knives, brow furrowed slightly before closing the distance. 

 “Running off to see your boyfriend?”   
“ _Boyfriend_?” what’s meant to be a firm scoff comes out as a crackling, high-pitched denial. “He’s not my  _boyfriend_.”  

Parish butts in, lanky arms weaving passed both of you as he fishes something out of a drawer, “Who? What boyfriend?” 

“I told you about him already,” Rosalie drags Parish towards the swinging doors before you can stop them, jabbing her finger out the circular window, “There.  No, no, that one.  The spiffy one.” 

Your sous chef narrows his eyes as he considers Alastor from a safe distance. “…He looks like a wet blanket.” 

“What? No, he’s  _great_! His show’s the absolute berries, Pear, you’ve heard him.”  

At that, Parish wrinkles his nose, then turns to shoot you a very critical glance, then one at Rosalie.  Obviously, he's not much of a fan.  "Talks too much, then." 

" _It's radio,_  what else is he supposed to do?" 

"Um." You wedge yourself between them in a valiant attempt to slip through the doors. "I'm gonna head out." 

Your friends lean over to you and press a kiss into your cheeks, Parish on the right and Rosalie on the left, as you pass by. "We don't mean to harass you,  _cher_." 

"We only do it out of love." 

You grunt and wave them away, but can't stop the small laugh that bubbles out as you walk towards Alastor with a bright wave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter out (or, finishing chapter 3), hopefully it reads well and y'all aren't too bummed with all the OCs. Fortunately, we've introduced our final important character for this story and we'll be [hopefully] getting to some of the juicier morsels as we continue.  
> Thanks for all your wonderful comments, and I hope you all enjoy the rest of this story!


	5. Chapter 5

The next pervading weeks in the scullery are wrought with utter chaos; barrages of wedding receptions, birthdays and parties as spring rolls into summer.  It’s been so mind-bending you’re surprised that you haven’t been dragged into helping the night staff with the more  _illicit_  parties your restaurant sometimes offers.  But then again, with the looming disappearances and occasionally mangled corpse that crops up, New Orleans may be losing its taste for life under the stars.  Even your fellow chefs, as brazen and rowdy as they may be, seem to have clammed up considerably.  Parish refuses to let anyone leave the nightshift alone, and Rosalie has taken more to church—moreso than usual. 

You’ve heard enough hushed whispers and conspiracies to tell you how horrified people are—Bogeymen and vampires and other such ridiculous nightmares—hell, even the damn Rougarou is spoken of in meekest of voices, as if a mere word, and the beast will crash through brick walls to drag them away. 

 

“ _The_ _Rougarou_?” Alastor hoots under his breath and shakes his head on one of your now daily jaunts, “ _Really_.” 

 

You nod solemnly, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets as you offer your mock-gossip in a hushed tone. “I swear, I haven’t seen people this scared since they banned hooch.” 

 

Over these weeks, you’ve learned much more of your dear friend.  For instance- rakish and charming as his persona is at first glance, he’s an absolute prude.  A  _fusspot_.  For all his cordiality, you sensed a near imperceptible clumsiness underneath his smooth tone as he first explained his disdain for… certain levels of intimacies that go beyond stricter rules of conduct.  Not with _you_ , of course, he assured before you could bombard him with apologies.  A tender embrace (in _private_ , he urged) every now and then is fine.  Anything more would hurt his sensibilities as a gentleman.  When you had nodded, in solidarity with the sentiment, he reacted in a mixture of bemusement, relief and quiet delight.  Ever since, he seems much more relaxed with you, even as he expertly weaves through public niceties and decorum.

 

"Well, I'll let you know if I see any strange wolfmen lurking about," he winks at you and pats your shoulder, clearly in jest, before you depart for work. 

 

Despite that fussy nature, you would never call Alastor's sense of taste or interests 'mundane'.  Definitely not a man of god, if his aversion to _that_ conversation leaves you any room to guess, but you discern a fascination for the more paranormal oddities.  Witchcraft, devilry or specters and the like that would make your poor Rosalie faint, though you aren’t sure if it’s an actual interest or some sort of academic immersion.  It does strike you peculiar that, as the two of you cozy down in deep discussion, he seems ardently invested in the more violent or gruesome nature of such tall tales.

  Coming from any other soul, you may have taken the lore that excitedly gushes from your friend like font to spell a firm warning—but Alastor makes the whole affair wonderfully diverting.  That, and though demons and warlocks have much more to do with writers and gossips, you do find yourself idly fascinated by the subject.

Maybe that's why he's so secretive, you reason. If word got out on his...  _less than puritan_ interests, there's no doubt there'd be a ruckus, him being such a popular local and all. Combined with his at-times macabre sense of humour, it would probably make for a hefty drop in popularity. 

It's not an explanation into his mysterious past, but for the time being, with the exhaustive whirlwind of work looming before you, it sates your usual curiosity. 

 

Even with the addition of Alastor’s company, days begin to blur together in quick succession. You haven't spent nearly as much time with Rosalie or Parish outside of the kitchen as you have with Alastor.  Though it’s odd—you’ve on occasion asked Rosalie if she’d like to accompany the two of you on your usual walks.  You’d think, being such an avid fan of his, that your friend would jump at the chance to spend time with her favourite radio host, but instead she had refused with a timid excuse before scuttling back to work.  It could be mere nerves on her part (though in all your years together, you’ve never known Rosalie for apprehension).  You did ask Parish, too, but you expected him to refuse, and he does so with a snort and a roll of his eyes. 

It’s strange, to spend less time with them—they’re the core of your social circle, your tight-knit family, after all.  The thought comes with a latent wave distress, something you’re sure your fellow cooks feel the same sensation acutely.  They haven't _mentioned_ it to you, but you've caught them more than once bickering heatedly under their breaths only to stop upon your arrival.  You've mentioned it in passing, and both are ardent in denying the whole affair. 

After a few attempts, you drop the subject- they'll talk to you when they're ready.  Though, you hope they're ready sooner rather than later.

 

***

 

The monotonous cycle of days come to a halt one Thursday afternoon as you slip out of the kitchen with a cheery farewell.  Alastor's voice rings over the crowd before you can even spot him, calling you by name. Unusual, considering his proclivity for cheeky epithets, but you digress.  It takes you a short minute to sift through the crowd and make your way over with a wide smile to find your friend waving jubilantly at you. A box sits prominently on the table.  

 

"Uh-" you perch in the chair opposite him, "- What's that?" 

 

"Why, it's for you!" With one quick hand he scoots the parcel closer to you, clearly chuffed with himself. 

 

You gawk at him, then back at the present. "What? I, uh, I didnt get you anything." 

 

He doesn't speak, rather insists with a short gesture and shuffles the box closer to you with his knuckles.  His eagerness makes your mouth twist in a quizzical frown- he's incredibly abrupt today. It's not that you rightly mind, it's just... surprising. 

Still, your fingers flit over the parcel and open it with only a slight reluctance, and gape at its contents. 

Dark leather, bundled carefully in its packaging.  You run a careful hand over the strap and clasps, examining the excellent craftsmanship and fingers burrowing into pockets that would fit your knives perfectly. 

 

Your gaze flickers back to him in wide-eyed surprised. "I- this is beautiful Alastor, but I can't accept--" 

 

"Oho, yes you can." 

 

"But— this must've been  _expensive."_  

 

"My dear," he raises his arms theatrically, "this was  _singing_ your name. I couldn't  _not_  get it for you, could I?" 

 

A momentary silence nests between the two of you. Though you continue a reluctant front, your fingers graze the fine leather reverently. He gives you a long, evaluative stare, one that fluctuates between your calloused fingers and your tentative demeanor before leaning forward.  Resting his elbows firmly against the table, he carefully lifts the knife roll and pushes it into your eager hands. 

"Please.  I insist."  

 

You pause, to protest, but your mouth curves itself into a coy smile and you clutch the bag a little closer. 

 

"Thank you." 

 

At that, a new warmth emanates from Alastor’s ever present grin, and he pats your shoulder affectionately.  "There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Now," he rises from his chair at startling speeds, "shall we?”

With that he bows, ever the gentleman, and easily slips out of the bustling restaurant with you in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how very short and possibly disparate the update is from previous chapters-- I've been having a difficult time staying focused, and have found myself exhausted for various reasons. But I really didn't want to leave the month without some new chapter- that, and what basically sums up to a verbal montage helps me set up and gives me more time to work on more critical points of the story (for instance, I finally have an idea of how this story will end). I'm also going to get some more free time, so I'm hoping to get back on schedule for lengthier updates
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you all so much for your wonderful comments-- I'm glad you're all loving the story as much as I love writing it! Hope y'all are having a good week! :)


	6. Playlist

Hello all!

 

Apologies for the late update; the goal was/is to get a chapter up at least once a month, but obviously I missed September. While I continue to work on the next chapter, have some music that I listen to while I'm writing up the drafts!  Might add more later, maybe some drawings too if I can.

Again, thank you all for your patience, and I wanted to thank you guys for being so wonderful and supportive in the comments!  I can't wait for y'all to see the rest of the story I have planned. (Also, super excited for Hazbin to come out! I can't believe it's already October!)

 

Current Playlist:

  1. [Careless Whisper - Vintage 1930's Jazz Wham! Cover feat. Robyn Adele Anderson & Dave Koz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVXziMFEqX0)
  2. [The Correspondents - Fear & Delight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABS-mlep5rY)
  3. [Young and Beautiful - Vintage 1920's Lana Del Rey / Great Gatsby Cover feat. Robyn Adele Anderson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-aNCBzax8Ec)
  4. [Creep - Vintage Postmodern Jukebox Radiohead Cover ft. Haley Reinhart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3lF2qEA2cw)
  5. [I Can't Decide – Scissor Sisters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buYrBbwyCGE)
  6. [Timber Timbre - Run From Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbity554pSg)



 

 

<3,

SL


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, another bit done, though it's fairly short. Apologies on how abrupt the writing is, but I wanted to get something done on here. I've been having a hard time finding the wherewithal to actually write (though I have the basic outline for the whole story done by now, which is pretty nice). Like I've said before, if I get the time I'll go back and maybe edit this chapter later, but for now I want to thank y'all for reading this story, and for the wonderful comments!   
> \--SL

            The subsequent week, you proudly shoulder your new gift, knives now comfortably snug at your side wherever you go.  You hadn’t realized just how  _naked_  you felt without them—it’s been a while since you could breathe this easily, despite the sanguineous memory that still clings to them. 

Your friends are clearly thrilled to see you in high spirits, but the smile on Parish's face diminishes when you reveal the source of your good mood to be Alastor. 

"Really?" His mouth twists into an odd grimace, chopping some vegetables too vigorously, "Him, still?  _Mon ami,_ I thought that mouthpiece would’ve chewed your ear off by now." 

"What?" You furrow your brow and purse your lips into a small frown, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Oh, he's just..." Parish exhales through his nose, scrunching his face as he raises his hands in a dramatic exasperation.  "So _loud_.I can hear him  _guffaw_  -from the dining room! - over my own thoughts, like some sort of  _hell chicken_." 

            You don’t miss the odd way his gaze flits over to Rosie, who has been uncharacteristically quiet.  Which is concerning in itself- you’ve never really known Rosalie to be milquetoast in any endeavor, least of all voicing her opinions.  Maybe something had happened- but no, they would have talked to you if it came to that.  You're sure. 

"You don’t even know him yet, Pear," you finish trimming meat and eschew the fat to the side, "You might even like him a bit, if you gave him a chance. He's a riot!" 

When Parish seems unmoved (in fact, you think you hear a small huff of disapproval), you turn to Rosalie with a minute gesture.  "Rosie's met him. She can vouch for me." 

At her name, Rosalie whips and almost shrinks under Parish’s scrutinizing frown. 

"Wh- uh, oh! Yeah, he's the bee's knees," she says, her tone awkward and noncommittal as she scoots over to Parish with a wide grin, "Ignore the big lug!  He's just a little jealous is all." 

"I'm not-" Parish squawks unceremoniously as Rosalie wraps one arm around his waist and traps him in a vice-like hug. He only offers her a demoralized glare. "- I don't get jealous,  _cher._ We just don't see much of you anymore. Rosie misses you too!" (He adds this last part accusingly, directed squarely at Rosalie.) 

She chuckles, though there's no mirth in her voice, "It's true, but everyone misses you. That's what you get for having a life outside the kitchen. Can’t be everywhere at once, can you?" 

             You size up your friends with concerned appraisal, chewing at the inside of your cheek, a hand on your hip. Is this why they've been so cagey? So tightlipped?  A guilty twinge in your gut bubbles to life and resonate up into your ribs.  You didn’t think you’d been _that_ neglectful- then again, you've practically been  _glued_ to Alastor's hip after work for months, it's become a rarity to find you alone.  You haven’t heard any of Parish’s usually rambunctious nights out or of Rosalie’s familial woes.  It’s only now it dawns on you how out of the loop you are.

After a moment, you wipe your hands clean on your apron, then resting them back on your hips in stern determination. "Well, we'll have to do something about that." 

When both of your friends give you an odd stare, you elaborate. "I mean, uh.  We should have a night out. Like we used to." 

Rosalie's face spreads into a wide, enthusiastic grin, and Parish eagerly claps his hands together with a laugh, “Right now, eh?”

“What? No, we can’t skip work!” you hush Parish before he can pout, “Something tomorrow, maybe.”

“ _Oh_! Oh—” Rosalie hops from foot to foot, tugging at the sous chef’s jacket for attention and looking at you with large eyes, “We could go to _Benedic’s_!  Paul owes me a favour.”

"That sounds perfect." A chuckle bubbles out of you when Rosalie squeals in delight, dragging Parish with her in order to scoot closer to you.  You continue with a mock-scolding wag of your finger towards your sous chef, "I mean, uh. Unless Parish gets arrested again."

"Hey!" The sous chef sounds indignant, despite the smile curling at his lips.  He shrugs, "It doesn't count if they don’t press charges!"

"Yes, it does!"

 

              The playful bickering goes on for some time- as they day rolls on, and the three of you fall into a peaceful rhythm with the rest of the kitchen.  Whatever tension Parish and Rosalie have been feeling is long forgotten.

             You all say your usual goodbyes, assuring of your plans for the following day.  Rosalie pulls you into a tight hug and Parish claps you on the back and you leave.  Though, you don't miss the way Parish twists his lips into a thin, repressed scowl as his focus flickers to the dining room— you want to tell him to relax, to stop judging your new friend (because you _know_ , without even looking, that face is directed at Alastor), but it’s pointless.  Parish is not a creature too inclined towards change; you’re sure once they _actually_ meet, they’ll be thick as thieves. 

Or, you _hope_.

          With a final farewell, you turn heel and half sprint over to your awaiting confidant.

“My, my, aren’t we chipper today?” Alastor offers up a sparkling grin as he escorts you out the building.  He only offers Parish’s notably pained expression a sidelong glance as the glass doors of the restaurant closes behind you.  “Most of us, anyway.”

“Uh—oh, ignore him.  That’s just Parish.”

“Oh? Your sous chef?” His voice remains aloof— but there’s a strained fervor just beneath the surface.  That sort of rapaciousness you haven’t sensed from him in months.  You have to push aside the enigmatic, muted dread that jitters to life in your gut as you nod politely, shoulder raised in a half-shrug.

“Yup.  That’s him. He’s—uh, he’s a bit of a grouch, but I think you’d like him.”

               Alastor makes a wry, pensive noise, one betoken to a vague derision.  Definitively apathetic.  Maybe it’s too much to hope your friends become bosom buddies, a frabjous quartet, but this sudden and wordless tension that connects Al and Parish leaves you with a profound disappointment.

               Do you bring it up? It, for the most part, remains an unspoken issue.  It may even be just a figment of an overactive, over-anxious imagination.  After all, Alastor’s not met Parish before (not _in person_ , though you’ve spoken of him fondly during your walks), he’s no reason to act with such scorn.  Or perhaps he’s merely apprehensive at a new intrusion to his private life.  _That_ , you could definitely understand- though in your time together, _apprehensive_ would never be an adjective you’d align with the radio host.  But before you can decide what to say next, Alastor has cleared his throat, an arm hovering over your shoulders as he guides you from your work.  “Ah! I almost forgot to tell you, darling…”

               Any residual awkwardness drizzles away as the walk progresses.  Alastor chats with vigor about his day, the woeful performance of some of his coworkers, the usual, interesting gossip that seems to permeate his social circle.  Combine with the usual barbs of the public’s supernatural fears, the occasional morbid joke, it’s nearly business as usual— you almost forget to tell him your plans.

 _Almost_.  It’s fortunate that the memory blunders through your mind as Alastor turns his heel with a practiced grace, a regular dance in his jubilant farewell.  You’ve taken a few steps to your doorstep.  He’s waving, a stifled chortle at a macabre jab aimed towards one of your more quarrelsome neighbours before offering you a flippant glance over his shoulder and a wide grin.  “Until tomorrow, darling—”

“Oh, no.  Uh, wait— wait a sec—” you fuss and scramble back over as Alastor twists back to you, head cocked to the side in some genial yet cold fascination.  His eyes afford the briefest glance at the hand you gently rest against his elbow before refocusing squarely on your face.  It could be your imagination, but his smile seems to broaden, eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly.

“Hmm?” he balances on his heels jovially, one arm folded behind his back in true gentlemanly fashion, eyebrows raised, “Don’t leave me hanging here, friend.  Speak up!”

“I—” you laugh awkwardly, a short intake of breath before you continue “—uh, Parish n’ Rose and I are going out tomorrow.  We probably won’t be able to go on our walk after work.”

There’s a pause.

            You can feel your smile wane, just a degree, and it shocks you just how _empty_ the pause is, hanging thickly between the two of you.  It’s not _long_ , but it seizes you with an odd twang of guilt and— _what feels like—_ alarm as you search his face.  He’s still proffered up that dashing grin, but it’s…thinner.  The usual sparkle about his stare has been extinguished and you’re left with a chilly, appraising look.  Despite his apparently eternal charm, you suspect he’s less than _pleased_ by the news; part of you is touched he holds your daily walks in such high regards.  You decide to forgo analyzing the other, smaller part of your mind that is intent on rising the bubbling anxiety in your gut.

“Oh.”  Alastor ends the pause, his voice cheery, but deflated.  He clears his throat.  “And… this is a _spur of the moment_ endeavor, I assume?”

“Yeah!” your hands move of their own volition, punctuating your words as you continue, “Yeah, we were just talking about it in prep and, uh— _bam_! I’ve got plans.  It’s just, we haven’t been able to really seen each other, not like—”

“Of course!”  Just like that, he’s back to his boisterous self, slipping behind you and gripping your shoulders with ease.  He leads you to your front door as his hold transitions, coiling one arm over you as he gesticulates his other hand theatrically, “Of course, I’ve been hoarding you all to myself, they must _miss_ you!  After all, you’re a hoot, darling!”

           You can’t help but chuckle at his exuberance, but before you can reply, he’s swung the door to your apartment open ( “ _Wow_ , you really need to remember to lock your door, sunshine!  Don’t want the _rugarou_ to get you, do we?” he punctuates the remark with a teasing snarl, which makes you _snort_ with laughter).

“Tomorrow morning as usual, then?”

“As always.”

He hums, satisfied, and offers you another toothy grin and a wink before taking a wide step backwards and sharply closing your front door. 

That went well, all things considered.  You shake off any remaining nerves as you get yourself comfortable and ready for the next day. 

(… _After_ locking your door.  Alastor has a point, after all.)


End file.
